


Kunēgetikós

by mentosmorii



Category: Artemis Fowl - Eoin Colfer
Genre: Butler-Fowl found family, Comedy/Drama, Gen, Not Fowl Twins compliant, Slight Canon Divergence, afbb21, continuation of the conflict of book 3, fraught Fowl-family dynamics, post-book 8, snarkiness, the minutiae of early 2000s capitalist in-fighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29421747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mentosmorii/pseuds/mentosmorii
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be a stranger to the touch of the law.In taking a catalog of Artemis Fowl II’s few professional mistakes, one finds his decision to let the Chicago courts sort out the matter of Jon Spiro. In taking a catalog of Spiro’s professional mistakes, one finds his decision to cross paths with Artemis Fowl. In taking a catalog of Artemis Fowl I’s myriad professional mistakes, one finds his decision to pursue business with Fission Chips.Depending on one’s perspective, the ensuing debacle could be considered almost comedic.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 61
Collections: Artemis Fowl Big Bang 2021





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **κῠνηγετῐκός** • (kunēgetikós) _m (feminine_ **κῠνηγετῐκή** , _neuter_ **κῠνηγετῐκόν** )  
>   
> \- Of or related to hunting
> 
> (Takes place Vaguely after the first AF series, however, this is not Fowl Twins compliant, nor, technically, the Last Guardian compliant.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Phoenix, Latte, Chars, Alyx and Magnus for looking this over! I could not have done this without you.

When the SWAT team pulled a gibbering Jon Spiro out of Phonetix’s R&D lab, Foaly sat back in his office and, a tad smugly, congratulated himself on another job well done. When he’d digitally thumbed through the FBI’s documents on Fission Chips, his suspicions were confirmed. To put it bluntly, anyone with a few brain cells to rub together could tell the company was built on the fruits of labor it had not harvested. In fact, Chicago’s DA had tried to nail the company on corporate espionage so many times that the opposing legal teams were on a first-name basis with one another. In dialing 911 to alert the authorities of Spiro’s audacious act of B&E, Foaly managed to accomplish what humans were incapable of: catching Fission Chips _in flagrante delicto._

By the time Foaly had caught up on the finer details of Fowl’s mindwipe, Spiro, representing Fission Chips, had finally been dragged to court. In Foaly’s place, his underpaid techies trudged their way through the busy work of undoing most of the financial shuffling Artemis had effectuated on Spiro’s assets. There weren’t many transfers to undo, however. As a rule of thumb, banks don’t allow their customers to withdraw the worth of a country’s GDP remotely. Foaly wasn’t too concerned about this clean-up order; with a mountain of evidence ready to come crashing down on the man, even Spiro’s fortune couldn’t stay the sword of Damocles.

Jon Spiro’s day of reckoning had come knocking.

Then, Phonetix dropped every single charge against both Spiro and Fission Chips.

All the company asked for was a few million dollars. In essence, they were letting Spiro off scot-free. When federal charges rose up to slam down on Spiro the second he exited the out-of-court settlement signing, that aforementioned mountain of evidence seemed to have crumbled to dust. The most that could be levied against Spiro, his lawyers simpered, was that during a nervous breakdown, he’d broken into the R&D lab. No one of sound mind would commit corporate espionage via walking into a competitor’s place of business. If anything, Phonetix had Spiro to _thank_ for illustrating that an individual, completely sans force, could waltz up and down the most hallowed halls of their facilities without obstruction.

Chicago’s District Attorney resigned the following month.

What Foaly had failed to realize was that Phonetix and Fission Chips were the biggest fish in the communication industry’s pond. It has oft been said, “better the devil you know,” and few companies wish to become acquainted with the weaponization of the U.S.A’s antitrust laws. Further, if Phonetix had to have a competitor at all, better Jon Spiro (who was mad as a hatter and twice as crafty) than some half-way competent yuppie out of Harvard business — or worse, _Yale_.

Gradually, the press forgot about Spiro’s little R&D indiscretion. The workers in Phonetix’s and Fission Chip’s respective labs continued to toil on, and their stock soared, unhindered by pesky accusations of monopolization. Similarly, after the mindwipe’s tendrils released their hooks from Artemis’ psyche, the Fowl heir had more pressing concerns than checking up on the whereabouts of Jon Spiro. 

Fate had granted Spiro a second chance; the world was willing to forget.

Quietly, Spiro went to and graduated from rehab. He began listening to his doctors for the first time in years. His comportment radically improved, and his days of ending up in the tabloids for threatening to dangle incompetent interns out of high-rise windows were behind him. As far as anyone was concerned, he was a changed man.

What Jon Spiro did not do was forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Timeline:**  
>  This is like 10ish years or so after book 2 -- so 2011-2ish?  
> My apologies to The Fowl Twins series… but this ignored plot developments from those books  
> Also I decided to ignore the loss of the eye-swap w/ artemis’ death bc the idea of swapping eyes w/ your friend symbolizing an increased ability to see things from their perspective + live in their world was Colfer’s dopest narrative choice


	2. Chapter 2

Both age and the edifying nature of magic had whittled away the man Artemis Fowl I once was. In much the same way declawing a cat cannot be done without inflicting injury on the animal, so too had Fowl Sr. been made less by becoming more. This change hadn’t been wholly intentional on Holly’s end. From the point of view of psychoanalytic theory, magic is the Id made manifest; although Holly hadn’t been consciously trying to deliver a moral booster shot to Artemis’ father when she’d wrenched him, half-drowned, from the Arctic waters, there’d still been a tiny part of her mind that whispered: _God, if he’s even half the kind of man Artemis hopes to grow up to be one day, we’re screwed._

When Artemis Fowl I woke up in a Helsinki hospital later that week, Holly’s magic had made sure to soothe its caster’s worries. Unfortunately, ironing out the kinks in the Fowl psyche had come with some costs. For example, Artemis Fowl I, or Tim, as he’s taken to asking business partners to call him, was now decidedly worse at determining when he ought avoid further entanglement with a particular individual or organization — in defanging himself, he’d lost his acculturation to what indicated the mien of a predator. 

One could argue he’d never had a knack for sensing such things, if the events that landed him in the Arctic in the first place were any indication.

Tim waved the spoon that carried his amuse-bouche as he spoke, and the small appetizer wobbled, threatening to fall. It was dulce de calabaza, or pumpkin simmered in a syrup of brown cane sugar, cinnamon, and cloves. To keep the appetizer flirtatiously sweet rather than cloying, it was paired with a cube of buttermilk blue cheese, and the surface of the spoon had a glaze of an aged-balsamic reduction.

“You know what’s fascinating?” Tim asked, more for his own benefit than that of his tablemate’s. “A decade ago, this,” he gestured with the spoon once more, “would have indubitably contained meat. I’d also wager that it’d probably contain beef, though of that, I’m less certain.

“And if it were beef,” he continued, “then it’d be medium or rare. What a sight those days were, a room full of three-piece suits, and the food of choice was meat reminiscent of when our fare of choice was freshly hunted.

“Now, no one has the stomach for that kind of culinary atavism. We’re meat-eaters no more — abstainers of animal products as a whole, if we can help it. You know, way before my wife and I had heard of this cultural shift, my son became a vegetarian, actually. Not sure if it was due to the trendiness of it, however. He’s always sort of gone his own way.”

“Wow, Tim,” a thoroughly bored Jon Spiro droned, his amuse-bouche ignored. “That’s very interesting.”

Tim had been in the middle of consuming his appetizer, and he coughed slightly. “I know,” he said demurely. “These things just come to me sometimes. I’ve been meaning to write a book, but,” he sighed, “I don’t know. Something always gets in the way. Business, most likely.”

Jon made a noncommittal sound.

Soldiering on, Tim set the ceramic appetizer spoon back down on the table. “I’ve been rambling. Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself, Jon?”

“Communications is the industry of the future,” Jon droned. “As long as the world keeps turning, my line of business continues to boom.”

They fell into an awkward silence. Tim wondered if he was meant to recognize his dining companion’s company based on that turn of phrase.

“IBM?” he ventured, and Jon frowned.

“No. Fission Chips.”

“Wasn’t their CEO in the news a while back—”

“That was in 2002,” Jon interrupted, an edge seeping into his tone. “And none of the charges went anywhere.”

“Of course,” Tim nodded, not pressing further. “And what a comeback they had.”

Somewhat mollified, Jon raised his glass slightly in mock-toast. “That we did.”

“Not quite unlike that of my own business, actually,” Tim mused. “Fowl Industries—”

Jon gave him an odd look, pausing. “Fowl Industries?”

“Yes, Fowl Industries. Now, as I—”

“I’m sorry,” Jon shook his head. “Fowl? F-O-W-L?”

Tim looked a tad mystified. “I hardly think anyone would name a business Foul, F-O-U-L, Industries. Though, you are American, no? I suppose you lot do have the lion’s share of bizarre company names.”

Jon leaned closer, ignoring Tim’s tangent. “And you have a son?”

For the first time that night, Artemis Fowl I had the full attention of a fellow party-goer. In truth, he never expected to shine socially at these functions, as these galas were more of a networking opportunity for Angeline’s new psychological writing than anything else. When he’d attempted to make small talk with the only other man as cloistered from the festivities as himself, he’d not expected the name of his company to rouse this much genuine interest.

“Yes,” Tim reminded him, cautious. “He’s a vegetarian.”

* * *

The email was nested between various spam messages. It’d been so long since his father had sent notice of family business via email, largely because the Fowls hadn’t had any worth making a fuss about. How _odd_ the banality of family life was. Next Tuesday, his father would take the twins to the cinema. On Sunday, his mother was meeting with a friend from her graduate program. Next weekend, they’d have dinner with a few potential partners for Fowl Industries, wasn’t that grand?

As he went through his inbox, skimming unread messages in order to prepare for the week, Artemis reached his father’s email. Opening the message, Artemis glanced over its text, already preparing to exit the window. Upon reaching the guest list, though, he paused.

Brow creasing, he printed out the email. He watched the paper as it was slowly fed through the printer, and, not waiting for the ink to dry, pulled it from the output tray. 

The words remained unchanged; there could be no denying its existence. 

At first, Artemis left the printed-out invitation on his desk, unsure of how to process its message. _Uttering the name would ultimately make the approaching dinner real,_ Artemis imagined. Despite himself, the treacherous superstitious part of his mind emerged as it often did in private moments of great stress.

When he managed to banish these specters from thoughts, Artemis sought out his father. As the man was wont to do on a lazy weekend afternoon, his father was reading in the parlor, enjoying the warmth of the natural light that flooded through the windows facing the gardens of the estate. 

Sensing Artemis lingering in the doorway, his father looked up from the newspaper. Rather than lose time over idle pleasantries, Artemis tactfully directed his father’s attention to the printed copy of the email he’d brought with him.

The paper in his hand burned.

His father looked slightly bemused at the urgency of the conversation, though he humored his son. “Oh, yes, _that_ dinner — you will be around that Saturday, won’t you?”

Artemis nodded absentmindedly, gesturing back at the guest list.

His father squinted, looking over the invitation once more.

“Jon from Fission Chips,” he recalled. “He was at the benefit in Vienna your mother dragged me along to.”

Putting aside his pride, Artemis implored his father to reconsider. Desperate, Artemis bombarded the man with every argument he could muster (though he was careful to conceal the history he shared with Spiro): Jon was likely still unstable; aligning with Fission Chips would be a risk for a company as new as Fowl Industries; bringing on new donors could carry the implication of favors owed to those benefactors down the line.

His father would not hear any of this. 

In a week, Fowl Manor would be bustling with guests, and among them would be Jon Spiro.

Artemis' first instinct was to spend the next seven days unearthing by hand the manor’s now-defunct moat, which had been filled in with gravel decades before his birth. 

His next instinct was to call Foaly.

* * *

The conference call started as many do: with irreconcilable viewpoints forced to somehow co-exist. As the conversation went in circles, Artemis’ ire only grew. Seated next to him by the computer was Butler, who had remained silent thus far during the call. Though Artemis felt a shared sense of apprehension coming from his bodyguard, Butler had not yet offered his own opinion on Spiro’s reemergence. For this reason, Artemis found it difficult to remain focused on Foaly’s paranoid chattering.

Artemis diverted his growing nerves into drumming his fingers against the wood of his desk. The more clinical he seemed about the affair, the more likely it was that Foaly would listen. Ever since he’d started consulting for both Sector 8 and the LEP, Foaly had grown increasingly convinced that the People were inching closer and closer to being discovered. Assured of his own intelligence, Foaly would take Artemis’ show of emotion as proof of bias; he’d dismiss the contents of any argument Artemis might present as invalid due to their history with Spiro.

“Let me be clear: I’m not laying the blame on anyone here,” Artemis stressed, and the pixelated image of Foaly on his desktop scoffed. “Once Holly and I had recovered the Cube, setting into motion the events that would lead to Spiro’s arrest, no one in our little heist team was concerned with the man’s fate.”

“We should’ve tried to bust him for insider trading,” Foaly lamented. “The SEC are so much more ruthless when it comes to white-collar crime than the FBI.”

Artemis resisted the urge to grit his teeth. “However,” he interjected. “I digress. At the risk of sounding cliché, the past is the past, and we need not waste time wringing our hands over how we could have increased Spiro’s prison sentence. Currently, the man retains all of his memories of the Cube debacle. That _in and of itself_ should be a reason to mobilize the LEP to finish the mindwipe.”

“So he’ll be reduced to gibbering in tongues, which would leave a nice niche for Fowl Industries to slide into?” Foaly hinted, a wry smile playing across his mouth.

Recoiling, Artemis’ previously controlled expression went slack. “You cannot be serious, Foaly—”

Foaly held up a hand placatingly. “Fine, I went too far there. But the…” He paused, looking for the right word. “The general sentiment behind it stands. I’ve checked back up on Spiro, and from what I can tell, the man had a breakdown, which was then followed by a genuine change of heart. He's never approached the Fowls before, and he's not shown up on any of the lists of humans who’re investigating the possibility of the supernatural. There's no way to justify a mindwipe. The Council didn't need much information to justify approving your mindwipe for obvious reasons — and for all they knew, the ping that brought Holly topside shortly _before_ that mindwipe was merely you poking around in the People's business again. On paper, most of Spiro's connection to the Cube does not exist, and revealing the extent to which the mission was lied about will likely only result in Root posthumously being stripped of a few honors.”

Foaly trailed off, sensing he’d stoked Artemis’ rancor. “I mean, what do you want us to do, kill the guy?” he said, but his tone wasn’t unkind.

“They gave you permission to biobomb the manor,” Artemis pointed out, the worry lines on his face deepening. “Your society is built on legal precedent; I hardly think it would beggar belief to read their ruling during the Fowl Siege as a justification for the use of preventative force with Spiro.”

Having otherwise remained silent during the meeting, Butler coughed pointedly.

“Not that I’m suggesting we kill Spiro,” Artemis amended. “I will concede Foaly’s point that we are all above that sort of business now.”

The centaur almost seemed contrite. “My hands are tied, Arty. As much as I’d love to indulge in your ongoing delusion that the LEP are at your beck and call, I’m afraid with Spiro, it’s no dice.”

With an air of finality, Foaly reached for a file on his desk, leafing through a few pages. Ignoring the waves of displeasure emanating from the other side of line, he hemmed and hawed to himself as he read through his notes.

“A full moon is coming up at the end of next week,” Foaly mentioned off-handedly, eyes still scanning the documents. “Holly’s twice past due for a Ritual, and,” he held up the dossier, as though Artemis could have somehow missed it, “we’ve been needing to catch you up to speed on Sector 8’s plans for demon rehabilitation. Will the manor be too busy then, or will she be able to pop in to exchange intel?”

The insult Artemis had been readying died at the tip of his tongue, and he paused.

“No,” he said. “No, that shouldn’t be a problem at all.

“In fact,” Artemis added, making eye contact with Butler, “If more time is needed to discuss your work, it would be entirely possible to accommodate the captain for an evening or two”.

When the call finally came to an end, Artemis turned to Butler. "Do you think he genuinely believes there's a risk his communications are being monitored, or if the production is part of what keeps the job exciting?"

Butler chuckled lightly. "Next you'll tell me you suspect he's just grown fond of how the tinfoil hat rounds out his outfit."


	3. Chapter 3

Fowl Manor was tucked away from the more populous areas of Dublin. Between a combination of secluding walls and sprawling, intentionally cultivated forests, the land surrounding the Fowl property tended to be eerily quiet. The grounds gave off the not altogether hostile ambience that the land had separated itself from the rest of the island, both temporally and geographically. 

It was a spring night, and the droplets of mist hanging suspended in the air could have equally been an omen of a brewing storm or simply a sign of the steadily dropping temperatures that advanced upon the land as twilight settled in.

Currently, Artemis and Butler were holed up in Artemis' office, waiting for the arrival of Captain Holly Short. In the corner, Butler sat quietly, flipping through an old book. Though he seemed absorbed by the act, those familiar with the man would know that even in his older years, his senses were attuned to the mere hint of a potential menace. Years of training had made instincts out of the skills some men struggle their entire lives to master. However, this neither cheapened his enjoyment of nor dulled his attention to his book. Currently, he was working his way through a well-worn copy of Charlotte Brontë's poems.

Artemis, on the other hand, was seated at his desk, working through assorted paperwork. At the precipice of his twenties, he'd already taken to wearing glasses for work. They were a sensible, wire-rimmed pair — Juliet's prodding had been the only thing that had dissuaded him from purchasing a _pince-nez_. Privately, Butler was glad that she'd succeeded in her ribbing.

The moonlight streaming through the round window of the study cast a moiré effect on the wood-floor, giving the room an almost-underwater look. The house's medieval roots refused to be pruned, and installing any kind of electrical wiring within the house was a nightmare. Aside from a few faulty lamps mounted onto the office's walls and the necessary installations to support a few computers, the Fowls had given up trying to update the furnishing of this wing of the house. Though how attracted to modern refurbishing someone who desired a pince-nez form of spectacles was, Butler was uncertain.

The year was close enough to the vernal equinox that despite the moon's looming presence, the sky delayed in shifting the gray-blue tones of early evening to the richly blue, almost wine-dark color of night. Long, thin clouds streaked the sky, creating barriers between the visible stars and astrological figures. When Artemis would cast a glance at the window, it was easy to mistake the rippling of the light filtering through the glass for the potential sign of a fairy shielding.

A knock sounded, insistent, against the window, and Artemis straightened, pushing his chair away from the desk. Butler paused in his reading, his hand hovering over the page he'd been about to turn. The knock sounded again, and both men rose. Artemis waved at the gloom beyond the glass, and the window swung open at the behest of an invisible force.

Holly unshielded, smiling at Butler and Artemis. "You would not believe how crowded the Hill of Taral gets around this time of night," she said, taking off her helmet. "No one goes by the Wexford Ritual site anymore, thanks to you both, so it's like I've got my own personal well of magic whenever I want to recharge. Quite nice, actually."

As he always did when she alluded to their less-than-auspicious first meeting, Butler looked vaguely sheepish.

"You're so easy to ruffle," she teased, and Butler sighed, moving to close the window through which she'd entered. "Come now, you know I blame Artemis more than I do you."

"I was a minor," Artemis noted lightly.

"To the LEP's eternal embarrassment."

"Speak of the devil," he continued, motioning for her to follow him farther into the room towards his desk. "How much of a legitimate gesture are we obligated to make towards casework for the Council's peace of mind?"

Alighting on the cool cherrywood of his desk, Holly sat, letting her legs drop down over the side.

"If Trouble asks about the work, I'll say it was for Sector 8, and if Sector 8 asks, I'll say it was for the LEP."

"How devious."

"How practical," she countered, picking up the piece of paper he'd left on his desk. Disappointed to find that the email he'd printed out merely confirmed his earlier announcement about Spiro, she pursed her lips. Holly glanced at Butler, who had settled down in the beechwood Bergère armchair he’d been reading in earlier.

Butler returned her gaze, raising an eyebrow. 

She set the paper down. "Foaly has already told you how we're never going to get the go-ahead to bring mindwipe tech aboveground for Spiro, I'm sure."

"Correct," Artemis confirmed. "And as we're discussing this face-to-face rather than via my ring communicator, I'd wager you had more in mind for this conversation than relitigating Foaly's compunctions."

Butler interrupted. "Which is why now is also a good time to have a frank discussion about what the goal here is."

Artemis opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it, apparently thinking better of it.

"This isn't about petty retaliation, if that's your concern," he said eventually, tone firm.

"At this point, Artemis, the ethics of retributive justice are the least of my concerns," Butler retorted, and Artemis ignored Holly's attempt to nudge him. "Though I regret not voicing my concerns about Spiro when we first went to do business with him, I don't blame you for what happened. Twice we'd recently gone up against the fae and done so without any severe losses. I'm sure that as we went into _En Fin_ , you felt invincible — particularly with me, in my prime, at your side. I don't fault you for being arrogant with Spiro."

Artemis tensed.

More gently, Butler continued. "Perhaps Spiro didn't get what he deserved. Still, the same could be said of you and me. However, he got a chance to walk away, as did we. He may be choosing to discard that second chance, but we don't need to do the same so readily."

The mounting tension in the room somewhat subsided as Artemis quirked a grin, the sides of his mouth upturning wryly. "So you waited for Captain Short to arrive to suggest we three absent ourselves from the coming dinner, old friend."

Butler shrugged. "I'd be remiss if I didn't play devil’s advocate here. There are battles worth picking, and as always, I will be by your side should you choose this one. But know that if we do get pulled back into conflict with Spiro, that is not something we can easily turn back from — though I know it’s likely that you and Holly have already formed your own opinions on how to proceed here."

Artemis cocked his head, resting his gaze on Holly. "Well?"

She hesitated.

"I see both of your points," she admitted. "I agree that if we’re not careful, we could easily be kicking a stinkworm’s nest without meaning to. Still, Spiro did seek you out—"

"From what we can tell, him stumbling upon Mr. Fowl was mere chance," Butler cut in, crossing his legs and leaning forward. "Artemis did some research after learning about the coming dinner party. Before meeting Artemis' father, Spiro _was_ _not_ investigating the Fowls. It's highly possible that until that night, he'd not been aware that Fowl Industries had risen to prominence in recent years."

"How quickly he’s changed his tune," Artemis remarked cooly, and, rueful, Holly nodded in agreement.

"Meeting Artemis' father could have messed with what little restraint Spiro had in the long-game he was trying to play with you," she pointed out. "Spiro suddenly trying to reconnect after a decade of silence is a bad sign — and I don’t think simply ducking out of his direct line of sight will help."

Butler held up a hand, ticking off his fingers as he went along. "So, mindwiping is out of the question, as is avoiding Spiro altogether. And," he emphasized, "We all agree that him reemerging all of a sudden is characteristic of erratic behavior, which adds another layer of danger to consider. "

Holly sighed.

"The mesmer can work in place of a mindwipe in desperate situations, as Artemis demonstrated with his parents,” she said. “The memories technically remain untouched, but you can convince the mind to avoid returning to certain thoughts or experiences, as well as encourage specific behaviors.”

Exhaling noisily, Butler rubbed the bridge of his nose. "What's your plan, then?"

The question hung in the air, charged.


	4. Chapter 4

When he was young, Jon would spend Saturdays at his grandparents' house. It was the early 1960s in Chicago, and he was not old enough to be trusted with spending hours on his own, unsupervised. While his friends with less strict parents were pooling their allowances so they might be able to spend a few hours in a nearby arcade, Jon's mother worried about the trouble that lay beyond the safety of her — or her parents’ — watch. _The boys you pal around with are a bad influence,_ she'd once told him on the drive to his grandparents’, the summer air heady within the confines of the family's Chevrolet Corvair. He had scowled, biting back the urge to insist that she didn't have to worry, because _he_ always had the best ideas, which therefore made him the ringleader.

Instead, he had leaned his face against the warm glass of the window, droning out the buzzing of the slightly out-of-range radio. When his mother kissed his cheeks, promising her parents that Jon would be good for them, again, he would resist the urge to bat her affections away.

This is not to say that deep down, Jon was always destined to become the kind of man who, seeing an opportunity to profit and the likelihood that he'd never face consequences for it, plucked one of the only pieces of working fairy technology out of the hands of a thirteen-year-old Artemis Fowl, and then walked away from the business proceedings, content in his belief that the boy wouldn't see the age of fourteen. As is the case with most, Jon had not been ‘born bad’. In much the way science uses the term black box to describe the opaque transformation an input undergoes to become a wholly different output, somewhere in the course of Jon's life, he had shifted from an occasionally self-absorbed child into an empty vessel piloted by ephemeral fits of pique. During that fateful day in _En Fin_ , perhaps a trace of his child self remained in him — nothing more.

During those boring Saturdays that peppered Jon's childhood, he didn't have any suspicion of this future that awaited him.

Those weekends somewhat blended together, similar and ordinary as they were. If the weather was nice, he would join his grandfather in the garage, where the older man would spend the day chipping away at projects that never seemed to be complete. If the weather was poor, Jon would reluctantly join his grandmother in the sitting room, where he would be forced to try to glean some entertainment out of the radio show that droned on in the background. More often than not, he would bring along a magazine to read in order to pass the time, though his grandmother would always scoff at his selection. There were a few Saturday visits, however, that stuck out. Usually, these Saturdays were marked by a sudden, fierce change in the weather, and as such, these visits stretched into the afternoons of Sunday.

Jon was like his grandmother in many ways. Both she and Jon were proud beings, loath to show weakness. On these stormy visits, though she would never admit it, his grandmother was thankful for his company. To push back against the raging downpour outside her doors, she tried to fill the space inside her home as much as possible; perhaps the act of living well would encourage the storm to roll over the small Illinois suburb without doing any harm. Though the radio would still be playing, she would fill the air with chatter, too, telling Jon stories of her childhood or old bits of folklore she remembered. Her own parents had moved to Illinois from Greece when they were young, and they'd been determined to promote respect for, if not appreciation of, the history and mythology of their homeland. Like a spoken escutcheon, these resurfaced stories, carried on her reedy voice, drowned out the clamor of the rain as it lashed against the roof. More powerful than the five o'clock news or the latest baseball game, these stories were intoxicating to Jon's young ears, and greedily, he listened, rapt.

Those nights, his dreams would be overflowing — they ran over with images of golden Ceryneian hinds; of forests where the tree line was transformed into an earthen cloisonné by the darting and rampaging boars; of god-struck women fleeing fate, their fingers elongating into feathers and mouths sharpening into beaks.

His grandmother died when he was a senior in high school. The service had been small, and afterward, he'd driven the Corvair down the roads that curved out of the city towards the suburbs. Jon had outgrown the need for those watchful Saturdays, but the memories had long since buried themselves under his skin; it felt like a homecoming as he helped his grandfather transfer his grandmother's belongings into boxes that were to be sent up to the attic. When he and his grandfather sealed the final box, his grandfather had awkwardly clapped him on the back, thanking him. Their parting was anticlimactic, and a part of Jon felt deeply wrong as he reversed out of the driveway; Jon felt like he'd failed a test he wasn't aware he was being given. Mainly, however, Jon felt tired. It'd been a long Saturday, after all, and he had work in the morning.

His grandmother left the family a sizable portion of her assets, though she did ensure that what she left her surviving husband would serve him well into the twilight of his life. Of this inheritance, Jon's family insisted it be used to send him to college. While he'd never been at the top of his class, Jon was bright, and he'd always managed decent grades. When he was accepted into Ohio State University on scholarship, his family had made him promise to call — or at the very least, write.

At college, finding friends came easily to Jon, and finding opportunities from these friendships came even easier. After graduation, he found success in shipping, and a few years later, he made a killing in stocks and shares. At the dawn of the 21st century, having nearly completed his transformation into the man Artemis would meet in _En Fin_ , Jon dabbled in the industry that would become his home: communications.

When Jon strode into the restaurant in London, he’d not thought about magic in years. When he seized the Cube from Artemis, the only gold on his mind was the amount Artemis had requested in exchange for staying the release of the device for a year. When he’d trekked deep into the bowels of Phonetix’s R&D labs, any memories that remained of sacred stags and weeping stones were mere cognitive ghosts.

When the journey to the R&D lab had gone awry, he'd looked at the bodyguards and hired muscle he'd dragged along on this ill-conceived adventure, and found them to be at a loss as well. From what Jon could remember of this day, he'd flown into a rage, the advice from his doctor to keep his blood pressure under control forgotten.

“You have taken everything from me," he'd howled, partially at Artemis, partially at something unknown. _“Everything.”_

Then, a response from the boy had cut through the haze of his temper: “About my name – Artemis – you were right. In London, it is generally a female name, after the Greek goddess of archery. But every now and then a male comes along with such a talent for hunting that he earns the right to use the name. I am that male. Artemis the hunter. I hunted you.”

And with that, Artemis had disappeared.

 _Literally_ disappeared. It was as if the negative space in the room had swallowed him up. Despite returning to this memory again and again, whether at the bidding of his lawyers or the imploring of his therapist, he couldn't find any part of the memory that rang hollow. It seemed so vivid, was impressed with such supreme lucidity upon his mind, as though it were a daguerreotype and his brain the silver plate. His parting with the boy in the R&D lab had to have occurred; moreover, it had to have occurred just as Jon remembered it, no more and no less.

After the trial, Arno Blunt was nowhere to be found. Dr. Pearson, the most accredited member of Spiro's techies, had quit. Though other members of Pearson's department could confirm that they had been instructed to work on a project that involved _a_ cube, none of the engineers nor computer scientists could answer with certainty whether this was _the_ Cube that Spiro had raved about during the court hearings.

Jon quickly decided the Cube affair was better left alone. With the help of Phonetix's legal teams, he'd been given a second chance. Contrary to popular belief, Jon could be a pragmatic man when he needed to be.

With explanations for how and why he'd come to break into the R&D labs seemingly beyond his grasp, he threw himself back into work. Each day, he would wake up and go through the motions of being the head of the company. Once again, Fission Chips rose to the top of the Fortune 500 lists, and he felt something akin to pride when he reflected on this hard-won progress. 

Still, the part of Jon that contained the relic of who he'd been as a boy had been unearthed.

Sometimes, Jon might walk into work, the Chicago skyline above him dark and rolling with the promise of rain. However, as he walked to his car after work, black umbrella a paltry barrier between himself and the fat raindrops that assailed him, he couldn't quiet the stirrings within him. As the car weaved throughout traffic, piloted by a man whose name Jon would never bother to learn, he'd sometimes rest his head against the cool glass; an odd mimicry of those Saturday drives. Eye closed, the colorful cars and passersby would melt into one another like the hues in an oil slick.

Artemis the hunter, his grandmother's voice quavered, her tone rough from years of smoking.

When the limo finally reached the high-rise apartment complex in which he lived, Jon would wordlessly step out onto the sidewalk, drawing his coat closer around himself. Trailing behind him, curious, drifted those treacherous thoughts of myth and magic, threatening to follow him inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically just tried to pull from as many Artemis myths that feature her wrath, gold, and birds, lmfao (am lazy so sources are pulled from wiki)  
> \- **“Golden Ceryneian Hinds”**  
>  “The Ceryneian Hind in Greek mythology was a huge female deer which lived in the region of Keryneia. It was a sacred animal to the goddess of the hunt Artemis. Although female, it had male-like antlers, which were made of gold.” [x] Also, I think one of Hercules' trials was to kill this deer, specifically because the king knew that Hercules would likely be merked by Artemis for killing her deer.  
> \- **“Rampaging boars”**  
>  “King Oeneus ("wine man") of Calydon, an ancient city of west-central Greece north of the Gulf of Patras, held annual harvest sacrifices to the gods on the sacred hill. One year the king forgot to include Great "Artemis of the Golden Throne" in his offerings[11] Insulted, Artemis, the "Lady of the Bow", loosed the biggest, most ferocious wild boar imaginable on the countryside of Calydon. It rampaged throughout the countryside, destroying vineyards and crops, forcing people to take refuge inside the city walls,[12] where they began to starve.”  
> - **“of god-struck women fleeing fate, their fingers elongating into feathers and mouths sharpening into beaks”**  
>  "A scholium of Servius on Aeneid iii. 72 accounts for the island's archaic name Ortygia[16] by asserting that Zeus transformed Leto [mother of Artemis] into a quail (ortux) in order to prevent Hera from finding out about his infidelity, and Kenneth McLeish suggested further that in quail form Leto would have given birth with as few birth-pains as a mother quail suffers when it lays an egg.[17]"


	5. Chapter 5

When the night of the dinner came, Artemis Fowl I and Angeline Fowl were pleasantly surprised. Although the forecast had predicted rain, it seemed as though the sky would defer its plans to pour until early into the coming morning. As such, the evening boasted all the gifts of a coming storm without the annoyance of the poor weather itself; releasing earthy vapors into the evening air like a great sigh, the low barometric pressure revealed all the hidden scents and qualities of the soil.

The guests began to arrive as the sunset took on the pale, bluish-gray color that signals its hues are soon to be swallowed by the black of night. The car park on the grounds was tucked off to the side of the manor, and in order to enter the house, visitors had to pass by the gardens. This trek through the idyllic demesne added to the convivial atmosphere, and Artemis watched as the members of Europe’s upper-class trickled in to Fowl Manor.

As Artemis had expected, Spiro arrived nearly a half hour after the festivities had begun. Just as during their meeting in _En Fin_ , Spiro was dressed in an almost blisteringly-white linen suit — it would have been impossible to miss the man as he exited his car and made his way to the path towards the gardens.

Spiro wandered about the manicured lawn, an air of forced nonchalance about him. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the way Spiro feigned at pausing to admire the bushes, Artemis concealed his annoyance behind a sip of his water. Whether Spiro's bumbling was genuine or a way to conceal his surveilling for potential threats, it hardly mattered. Though Artemis could no longer see her, Artemis knew Holly was shielded nearby. Similarly, Butler waited by the entrance of the hedge maze, ready to emerge from the shadows and intervene at the first sign of an altercation.

His patience wearing thin, Artemis looked directly at Spiro. Surprised at having been acknowledged, the man started, eyes widening. At this, manners be damned, Artemis did roll his eyes, which kicked off a stream of blustering from Spiro. Abandoning his attempts at surveilling Artemis from a distance, Spiro joined Artemis by the ornamental chestnut tree. 

"Are you Tim's kid?" Spiro asked, eyes narrowing. 

"I'm Artemis Fowl the Second," Artemis responded, voice clipped. Though he could not see past the entrance of the hedge maze at this angle, Artemis could sense that Butler's hand was already at his holster. In a rare display of both prudence and empathy for his bodyguard's blood pressure, Artemis took a step back towards the tree, forcing a barrier between himself and Spiro. 

Spiro did not let it show whether he'd understood the implication behind Artemis' movement.

"We've met before," he said bluntly.

Artemis cocked his head. "Have we?"

They stood there, regarding one another in silence, both waiting for the other to speak first. The sky had shifted to a dark, bruised color, and the world looked like it was painted in shades of grey under the dappled moonlight that shone through the long, flat leaves of the chestnut trees. Through the clouds, the moon hung, opalescent and swollen like a droplet of water as it shifted from the full moon of yesternight to a waning gibbous. Placing a hand on the rough bark of the thin trunk, Spiro moved to stand on the same side of the tree as Artemis, who in turn walked to the opposite side of the tree. Spiro paused, electing to not continue his pursuit. His hand remained against the bark, however. 

Though the procession had occurred with deep solemnity, Artemis was stricken by the ridiculousness of it all; it was reminiscent of when children would spin around maypoles, their colorful ribbons wrapping around the structures as they ran faster and faster in circles. 

Despite the fact they were in the middle of the Fowl gardens, close enough to the other party-goers to hear faint chatter, the night felt charged by something primordial. His hazel eye itched, but Artemis disregarded it. The small, feeble piece of magic he'd stolen from Holly in returning from Hybras thrummed within him; drunk on moonlight close to the caliber of the night prior, this magic rose to a crescendo within him, begging to be listened to. It whispered of full moons not long ago, of mudmen who came down from their mansions of stone to hide in the reeds of the river, stealing one away from the freedom of the open sky. The magic dug its claws in deeper, fearful at the way Artemis refused to listen to it.

 _Look,_ it howled. _Look, because this has happened before! Run fast, and run now, fairy — for mudmen do not fight fair._

Artemis smiled softly, amused. In a way, it was a comfort to know that the most fearsome imagery the magic could summon to impel him to flee was its memories of his twelve-year-old self. 

Spiro looked uneasy at Artemis' good humor, and not wanting to further provoke him, Artemis let the smile slip from his face.

"2002," Spiro tried, breaking the silence. " _En Fin_ , The Cube? Does this ring any bells?"

"2002," Artemis repeated, thoughtful. "I would have been thirteen at the time."

"Thirteen years old and selling technology decades ahead of what the industry was offering," Spiro praised, tone sardonic. "Your father must be so proud. If he knows about your extracurricular activities, that is."

Artemis hummed. "'Selling technology decades ahead of what the industry was offering'? Somehow, I sense that's not a compliment."

"Sharp as ever."

"Not sharp enough, I'm afraid — you'll have to spell out exactly what it is you're accusing me of, as I won't profess to understand what you're implying."

"Magic," Spiro said bluntly, and he flinched when Artemis laughed.

“Apple finished their prototype for the iPhone in 2004,” Artemis responded, and though his smile widened by a few teeth, it didn’t reach his eyes. “I had industry-disrupting technology, that I will concede. But magic? Come now, Jon.”

Spiro’s expression grew strained. “‘Artemis the hunter’. Remember that?”

“No.”

“ I — look, what do you gain by lying? _What_?” Spiro was animated now, throwing a hand up in frustration.

Artemis didn’t seem impressed by the outburst.

Sensing he was at risk of losing his already reluctant audience, Spiro forced himself to swallow his rage. He lowered his hand and rested it, fist clenched, against the trunk, as though he’d purely been going through the protracted motions of lounging.

“We both agree that we’ve met before tonight,” Spiro said firmly. Artemis nodded, shoulders tensing almost imperceptibly.

Spiro continued, confidence slowly curling about his posture in a way that hinted at the proud way he usually carried himself. “We dislike each other—”

“Clearly.”

“— _because_ of how we met?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand the question.”

“I,” Jon began, muscle in his jaw tensing. “I briefly thought you were a ghost or spirit sent to punish me. I was convinced of it up until the trial. Still _sort of_ believed that theory until recently. But,” he trailed off, wrinkling his nose, “you’re… real. Rich, but normal enough.”

Artemis’ smile was forced, which gave him the appearance of baring his teeth. “I apologize for disappointing.”

* * *

The ballroom had been filled with small, round tables earlier that week, and men and women ambled about the room. There was no rush to start dinner. The dinner table at which the Fowl family was to sit was decorated in the same manner as the rest of the tables; it had a classic cream-white tablecloth and a glass bottle in which a single, pleasantly odored orange rose rested. The only way a casual observer would have been able to tell the difference between this table and the others was that the Fowl table was placed slightly closer to one of the exits, and that the edge of the porcelain dishes and the metal cutlery had gold plating added for contrast. Though the event was meant to be a fundraiser, Tim had wanted to keep the dinner somewhat casual. In situating his family's table in a place equal to the other tables in spatial emphasis, hopefully his desire to turn over a new, more collaborative leaf in business would be made clear.

Jon, whom he'd met at the fundraiser earlier, had been invited to dine with the family. Though Fission Chips was a company that raised a few eyebrows when brought up, no one could deny that they were devilishly good at what they did — in no small part due to the man who led them. 

Fowl Industries was currently more of a pet project than anything. With the help of Artemis', the company had been able to tentatively release a few PCs and related hardware add-ons. Tim knew that the few products Artemis had been willing to design were not representative of the breadth of his son's capabilities; he was aware that Artemis was humoring what he saw as a passing fancy of his father. Tim could hardly fault him for this. Beyond the few organizations that had bought some of the prototypes Fowl Industries offered, the company had little function outside of aspirational small talk at galas. Fowl Industries hadn't even gone public with its shares, and it was unlikely that it would attempt to pursue an IPO for at least a year. This was partially due to Tim's own urging. He wasn't tech-savvy like his son; if someone asked him to guess where the market for corporate software and hardware would be in a decade, he'd respond with the admission that he didn't even know where that market was _now._

This was why his meeting with Jon had been such a pleasantly unexpected windfall. Though market analysis of the tech industry might've sounded like pure gibberish to Tim, where he did feel at home was interpreting the talk surrounding individuals in the industry. So much could be said about Jon: equal parts figure of adoration and terror for his underlings, Spiro was as divisive as the company he helmed. Spiro's charisma was enough to convince companies to come begging at his door for access to Fission Chips’ newest products, and if his charisma failed, then his fits of rage were legendary enough to instill customer loyalty among executives. Most intriguing to Tim, however, was the fact that Jon was not a tech guy by trade. Though he knew how to hawk the products, whether Jon fully understood the devices and software his company sold was debatable. 

While Tim might have put his days of strong-arming his way through business behind him, the implications of Fission Chips’ success did not escape him. Whether as an initial investor or unofficial advisor, Jon had the potential to take Fowl Industries from being a minor investment to a serious company. Tim's desire to see Fowl Industries grow was not born purely from vanity. If Fowl Industries could prove to be profitable, then Artemis' interest in the company would be stoked. Tim had no illusions regarding how the Fowls were able to live in the same grandeur that they did at the height of his involvement in the criminal underground. Though Myles and Beckett were still at the age where their father's lofty moralizing left an impression, Tim sensed that just as with the company, Artemis, ever the respectful son, listened to indulge.

Someone clapped Tim on the back, shaking him from his thoughts. Tight-lipped, Jon smiled down at him, his hand falling from Tim's shoulder.

"Jon," Tim greeted, rising. "Please, sit. I'm so glad you could make it — dinner is about to begin."

"Sorry I'm late," Jon responded absentmindedly, eyes darting around the room.

Sensing that he wasn't going to be offered any further explanation, Tim lowered himself back into his seat, gesturing for Jon to sit as well. 

"I hate to bring up business before we've even had a drink, but I'm sure you already know why I've invited you," Tim surmised, and a strange look, like a passing shadow, flickered across Jon's face.

"Artemis Fowl calls with a proposition: I would’ve walked across broken glass to be here," Jon stated genially, though the words hung in the air with a strange, impenetrable significance. He had delivered the statement with such relish; had glowed with the same excitement as when one delivers an inside joke in the company of a third wheel. 

Ignoring the tension, Tim gestured to the waitstaff, who were beginning to make their way around the ballroom.

"I hope you don't mind," he said to Jon apologetically, "but none of tonight's meal will contain meat. I know I mentioned this in passing when we met—"

"Your son is a vegetarian," Jon responded, the same charged quality suffusing his words.

"Exactly," Tim said. "So often these kinds of parties can turn into a sort of show-boating of who was able to get the rights to hunt this exotic animal, or something along those lines. I'm sure you'll find that none of tonight's courses want for luxury or presentation, though," he finished.

"I'm sure," Jon agreed, smiling.

The electric light of the room had been lowered for ambiance, and the honey-toned glow cast by a cluster of stout candles at the center of the table flickered.

Trying to ignore the empty seats clustered around the table, Tim made a show of jovially greeting the waiter who came with their first dish. The waiter had received the warm welcome in polite confusion, leaving the four bowls for the table at their proper places before wheeling his cart to the next table. The dish was a spicy vanilla bisque served with two sliced-open vanilla pods floating atop the soup, their innards glistening in the dim light like black caviar. The smell was pleasant; tones of burnt sugar and rich chai mixed and mingled, yet each individual scent remained detectable within the medley.

As if summoned by the food's arrival, Angeline and Artemis became visible in the crowd of guests milling around the ballroom. Angeline was guiding Artemis towards the table, speaking as they walked. The ambient chatter of the room drowned out whatever it was she was saying, though Tim could gather that the topic of the conversation displeased his son. 

Tim waved, and his wife, spotting him, smiled, her expression softening. Bidding Artemis to move more quickly, she reached the table in a few strides, moving to stand behind her husband's chair. Though Tim would have liked to twist his position in the chair so as to look up at her, he knew the movement would have been awkward; thus, he merely leaned back in his seat, and as the back of his head brushed her side, she rested her hand on his shoulder.

"You must be Jon," Angeline simpered, and a noticeably less affable Artemis joined her.

"And you must be Angeline," Jon responded, all charm; the odd energy he'd been bursting at the seams with earlier had dissipated. Not waiting for the young man to introduce himself, Jon turned to Artemis, extending a hand. "Arty, right?"

"Artemis, actually," Artemis said, voice tight. He shook Jon's hand curtly, releasing his grip the way one might detach himself from something odious. "What a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Spiro."

"Please," Jon stressed, ignoring Artemis' coldness. "Call me Jon."

The meal progressed with much the same strained feeling. Repeatedly, Tim tried to catch the gaze of his wife or his son, hoping to glean insight into the source of their discontent. Thankfully, he didn't have to worry about playing host to their guest, as Jon seemed more than happy to fill the silence with idle small talk and rambling anecdotes. Whereas Jon had been borderline morose the first time Tim had eaten with him, now, the man was lively. His chatter largely centered around various misadventures at Fission Chips. Though Tim had been hoping the dinner conversation would lead to business talk, he was unable to follow along with the discussion as Jon segued from one story to the next, worried as he was about how he'd fallen out of the loop.

"So," Jon remarked, resting an elbow on the table. Artemis' lip curled up slightly, though his expression remained controlled. "I've been talking your guys' ears off all night, haven't I? You didn't invite me here to yammer on about Fission Chips, I gather."

Tim made a noise of protest to be polite, and Jon continued. "No, no, I completely understand. Fowl Industries is tech, and not many major tech IPOs have been successful in Europe, let alone found the same kind of market dominance that American companies like Fission Chips have."

Tim was nodding along when Artemis furrowed his brows. 

"Deutsche Telekom?" Artemis interrupted, taking a sip of his soup.

Jon paused, his train of thought derailed. "What?"

"When the telecommunications giant issued its 1996 IPO, it had remarkable — historic, even — success in selling their initial shares. Going public isn't the only metric for success, further; Deutsche Telekom is now one of the leading mobile services worldwide."

Tim shot a warning look at Artemis, which his son ignored. 

"That's just telecoms, though," Jon argued. "Fowl Industries is entering the market as an operating system _and_ computer developer, which—"

"We're not planning on making operating systems," Artemis scoffed, and Jon spluttered.

"Why not? You know how to make operating systems—"

Artemis held out a hand, ticking off his fingers as he went through his reasoning. "Even if we had the resources that would make such a venture viable, vertical integration—"

"Vertical integration?" Tim cut in.

Artemis paused. "When a company designs both the computers and the operating systems that run on them — which is ostensibly fine if you're already established in the market, but lethal to smaller, new companies looking to be competitive. I say 'ostensibly' fine for established companies, as European Union competition law is _much_ stricter than American antitrust legislation."

Jon boggled. "I can't believe this," he said, and Tim winced. "You're — _you!_ _You're_ worried about antitrust laws?"

"Technically, my father is worried about antitrust laws," Artemis corrected. "This is his company, after all."

Jon looked doubtful, though he did refocus his attention back on the rest of the table. "Tim, a few years ago, the DOJ pulled Fission Chips in front of Congress because we were forcing app developers to kick back 40% of their profits on our phones' app store to Fission Chips. We just said we wouldn't do it anymore, and it _was fine_. Same thing with Phonetix. The FTC was not happy that they were being 'anti-competitive' in the market by stomping out smaller companies. Then, Phonetix decides not to prosecute for this," he hesitated, searching for the right word, " _incident_ that happened between our companies a while back — boom, they've proved they're open to playing nice on the market. _Do not_ let your son convince you that expanding the company is a bad idea."

"Let's not argue over dinner," Angeline admonished, her voice rising over the quickly devolving bickering between Artemis and Jon.

Tim felt an immense wave of gratitude towards his wife.

Holding up both hands in apology, Jon grinned roguishly. Across from him, Artemis fell silent, though he remained tense.

"Where are you staying, Jon? Ireland, or are you headed back over to England?" Angeline asked, satisfied with having deescalated the situation. As she listened to Jon blather, she popped a spoonful of her soup in her mouth. 

"We have a few more conferences to go to in England," Jon explained. "This time of the year is always when the bulk of our business trips are scheduled, so there's no reason to fly back to America for another month or so."

"You'll have to go to London," she insisted, "I lived there briefly when I was younger, and there’s never a lack of sightseeing to do."

"Any recommendations?" Jon asked, clearly indulging her.

She paused, resting the back of her spoon against her closed lips as she thought. "The West End theatre district is always nice."

"I'm not really a man of the arts," Jon admitted, heaping on notes of false-contriteness to the declaration.

"There is no such thing," Angeline insisted. "The theatre is just not your art of choice. Do you like food?"

"I'm eating, aren't I?" he replied, and Artemis' jaw tightened.

"That you are," she agreed. "Do you like seafood? There's a wonderful little place named _En Fin_ in London."

Jon coughed, blinking in surprise. 

Once again, Tim felt mystified by the dinner conversation.

"Er," he floundered, and Artemis fixed him with a glance.

"The restaurant _was_ a lovely seafood eatery," Artemis said coolly. "Sadly, it was destroyed a few years ago — there was an explosion."

Angeline took the information in stride. "How unfortunate," she sympathized. "I remember you were in London at the time. I'd imagine watching the scramble for increased anti-terrorism protections was stressful — you were so young at the time."

She frowned, and Tim reached for her hand. 

"Dear, he would've been back in school or at the manor," he comforted. "Arty might've been a bit of a wanderer before... I came home from Helsinki, but he would've been miles away from any bombings like the one you're describing."

"Sorry," she laughed thinly, squeezing his hand in hers. "I must've had a little too much champagne earlier — you're right, of course."

Distantly, Tim was aware of Jon's gaze, sharp like a hawk, as it flickered back and forth between each individual member of the present Fowls. 

* * *

As he stepped outside, Artemis let the night air wash over him. Inhaling shakily, he leaned against the cool stone of the manor's exterior, his thoughts swirling. 

The hairs on the back of his neck pricked.

He closed his eyes, finally exhaling. "Holly."

"Someday, you'll have to tell me how you do that," she said, and her disembodied voice filled the garden.

Despite himself, Artemis grinned. "I have the right to some of my secrets, don't I?"

The air shifted next to him, signaling that she'd moved closer. If he kept his eyes closed, Artemis could almost picture her sitting next to him. Oddly, this mental image was enriched by the soft tones of guests conversing on the lawn. None of them noticed her presence, and rather than it being due to her shield, he briefly entertained the notion that her presence, though clear, was unremarkable to them. The idea transformed the point of tonight, which was neutralizing Spiro, into something endearingly unremarkable: the mundanity of stepping away from a party to talk to a friend.

He opened his eyes, looking up at the night sky instead. "How has Butler been?"

"Stressed."

He snorted. "I could have guessed."

"There's nothing much else to report," she protested. "We're waiting for you to bring him back outside."

Artemis sighed. "I assure you, there's nothing I'd like more than for us to put tonight behind us."

"I was listening in on dinner," Holly began cautiously. "I haven't seen you get that petty in years."

She was quiet for a moment. "He's about the same age as your father, right?"

Artemis started, the bridge of his nose wrinkling. "Pardon?"

Though he couldn't see her, he could sense that Holly was uneasy.

"Don't take this the wrong way. I just — he gets under your skin so easily, Arty. And I'd always wondered about your father," she tried, uncharacteristically awkward.

Taken aback, Artemis ignored the potential security risk and looked directly at where she would be. "He is nothing like my father."

"He's nothing like your father _is now_ ," she pointed out, her shield humming low in the empty space next to him. "What about _was?_ "

Disgruntled, Artemis leaned back against the wall. "I am choosing to ignore what you're implying, Captain Short."

Although he wasn't sure, he pictured her shrugging. "Fine."

An unseen force squeezed his shoulder. For a moment, he considered ignoring the apology. However, he quieted the vindictive part of himself, and the desire abated, fading as though it had never existed at all. 

While he knew it must have looked like he was hovering his hand slightly over his shoulder, Artemis rested his hand over his friend's.

Once more, he closed his eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- "Artemis Fowl calls with a proposition: I would’ve walked across broken glass to be here,"  
> This is just a quotation of what Spiro initially says to Artemis in En Fin lol
> 
> \- Chestnut tree  
> “In ancient Greek religion Artemis Caryatis[1] was an epithet of Artemis that was derived from the small polis of Karyai in Laconia;[2] there an archaic open-air temenos was dedicated to Carya, the Lady of the Nut-Tree, whose priestesses were called the caryatidai, represented on the Athenian Acropolis as the marble caryatids supporting the porch of the Erechtheum.” 
> 
> -“Artemis had a sacred grove of sacred walnut or hazelnut trees at Karyai in Lakonia; the priestesses were named Karyatides, i.e. "ladies of the nut tree"”  
> Chestnut and walnuts both fell under “the nut tree” (obligatory Atlantis complex joke) title, but I ultimately went w/ chestnut trees because they’re more common than walnut trees as ornamental trees, I think


	6. Chapter 6

The hedge maze near Fowl Manor was made of carefully manicured evergreen herbs. The walls of the hedge were unusually high for a garden maze, stretching nearly four meters tall. The layout was unicursal. By design, it was impossible to become lost on the maze's winding paths, as upon entering, the natural curvature of the trees would lead one in slow, concentric circles towards the center. Grass did not grow readily upon the paths due to the way the high walls shielded the natural floor from sunlight during certain times of the day, and the Fowls had laid down a mixture of smoothed cobblestones on the path. What cracks did appear between the stones were plugged up with emerald-colored moss. 

The maze was inspired by the style of knot gardens in Renaissance Europe. The thought was that in walking along the stone paths of the maze, one's mind would be calmed by the sweet, piney smell of the evergreens. Ideally, upon completing the path, they would be well equipped to solve whatever problem had troubled them before they'd entered the maze. The maze served one more practical function, however: when in the maze, one's conversations would be muffled by the thick rows of trees, and, further, it was impossible to see beyond the entrance due to the well-maintained herbs that towered so proudly. 

The smell of pine in the spring air was invigorating, Artemis thought, waiting silently by the opening of the maze with Butler. After having talked with Spiro, Artemis had answered the first question Holly had requested he investigate — Spiro remembered, or at least, suspected, the existence of magic. Now, they needed to determine how deeply this awareness of magic was buried in Spiro's psyche. Performing a mindwipe with the mesmer was deeply unorthodox, as using magic to twist memories and change beliefs had a higher chance of shattering the mind than simply using technology to bury the memories altogether. 

The confirmation that Spiro remembered brought Artemis closer to his goal of finally scrubbing the man's connection to his life — and Butler's — away, but this also signified that the plan was in its most delicate phase. Despite holding on to his memories of magic, Spiro had caused no further trouble for the People. Artemis would both have to prove the need to remove those memories and the likelihood that introducing more magic to do so wouldn't create more problems down the line. 

Butler rubbed his hands together, warming them. He'd been waiting here since the start of the party at Artemis' insistence that he keep his distance from Spiro. If Spiro saw Butler before his interest had been piqued regarding magic, Artemis had argued, then there was a chance Spiro would assume he'd walked into a potential ambush. There would have been ample reason for Spiro to make this assumption; the irony in Spiro being attacked during a dinner he'd been invited to did not escape Artemis. Had Artemis had slightly fewer scruples, the chance to parallel the _En Fin_ attack with his own subterfuge would have been a difficult one to give up. 

_However,_ Artemis reiterated to himself, anticipation growing. _This is not about revenge. Fowl Manor is a charnel house no more._

"He's exited the house," Butler noticed, stepping closer to Artemis as if to preemptively put himself in front of his charge. Artemis laid a hand on Butler's arm in reassurance, though the bodyguard remained tense.

"Tonight won't come to blows," Artemis vowed. As he let his hand fall from Butler's shoulder, he hoped that the words didn't ring hollow in light of his arrogance during their first meeting with Spiro. How blind he'd been to Spiro's capacity for cunning; how unaware he'd been of the depths of Spiro's greed.

Artemis' heart twinged, and for a moment, he felt younger than he had in years. 

Spiro stood at the opening of the maze, backlit by the floodlights of the lawn. He remained still for a moment, peering at Artemis and Butler in the gloom.

 _Did it poison one's actions,_ Artemis wondered, _if they were motivated by antipathy rather than guilt?_

"You're looking good for a man that was murdered almost a decade ago," Spiro called out to Butler, sauntering over with his hands in his pockets.

Butler crossed his arms. "I got better."

"Clearly," Spiro observed. He shot Artemis a glance. "And this was due to...?"

Standing by Butler, Artemis sensed the agitation radiating from his bodyguard.

"It seems a tad arrogant to assume the only way one could get the better of you is through magic," Artemis chided, and Butler's hand drifted to his Sig Sauer holster hidden beneath his jacket. 

Artemis' taunts didn't faze Spiro. It seemed like the anger management coaching he'd gone through had been somewhat successful. Whereas his younger self would have flown into a spitting rage at the indignity of being insulted by someone half his age, now, Spiro let the bait glance off of him. In _En Fin_ , Artemis' mistake with Spiro was akin to the mistake hunters make when riling up their quarry for the thrill of the game. Tonight, in the hedge maze, there was the sense that their dynamic was closer to that of Rainsford and Zaroff than of hunter and hunted. Whether this shift made Spiro more or less predictable, Artemis did not know.

"You're not denying my claim like you were earlier tonight," Spiro noted, curious.

Paying no heed to the chill of the night, Artemis stepped closer. "Why should I waste time refuting your fanciful theories? Your claims are so ridiculous, and you so assured of them, that to present a sufficient argument against them would take more work than it's worth."

Spiro barked out a laugh. "This would be much easier with Arno here."

Artemis stiffened. "It _is_ easier to convince others of your position when you compel them with force."

"You're too sensitive," Spiro said, waving him off. "I meant that he was one of the only other witnesses of that trick you pulled in the R&D lab. It's no matter either way, though. Last I heard of him, he'd gotten killed on a job over in Iceland."

"Such a loyal employer," Butler murmured, the low timbre of his voice rumbling.

Caught off guard at Butler speaking, Jon made a face. "Loyalty is a completely foreign concept to a man like Blunt. I don't make it a habit to shed tears over every random stooge that kicks the bucket after leaving my employ. Sorry if that offends your sensibilities as one half of the weird blood-pact brotherhood you have going with your boss."

Butler didn't dignify the remark with a response, though a look of disdain slipped through his composure.

They could continue like this until the sun rose, Artemis realized with growing weariness. He would have to take back control of the situation.

"Why did you come here, Spiro?" he asked firmly.

"I already told you," Spiro retorted. 

"You've told us about your 'magic theory', true," Artemis acknowledged. "But that doesn't explain why you came."

"If you're trying to chase me off with philosophical bull, you're going to have to try harder than that," Spiro cautioned. 

"I'm not trying to prevaricate," Artemis insisted. "For the sake of argument, let's say that I concede that I used magic to get the better of you. Where do we go from there?"

Spiro considered this. "So you're admitting to having magic, then."

"Not necessarily," Artemis equivocated. "We could stand here all night, you insisting that I have magic, and I denying that I do. If we are to have any hope of making progress, then I'm willing to rhetorically entertain your position. I want to understand what your goal is beyond forcing me to admit that magic exists."

Artemis cracked a grin. "If I admit magic exists, for example, then is the goal to send me to a lab to be studied? I wonder what sort of award you'd win for providing American scientists with proof of magic years before any nation on Earth thought of exploring its existence."

An invisible hand rested on Artemis' shoulder, and it sunk in that what he'd said wasn't beyond the realm of belief. Still, his joke failed to amuse Spiro, who shook his head. 

"I just want you to admit it exists," Spiro said simply.

"But why?" Artemis prodded.

"Maybe because it'd make the world more interesting."

"You need magic to exist for the world to be interesting?"

Spiro gave him a withering look. "You clearly don't understand."

"Which is why I'm asking," Artemis rejoined. 

"You know, Arty—"

"I've told you before that I'd prefer you not call me that," Artemis snapped, patience frayed.

" _Artemis_ , did you know that you ruined my life?" Spiro continued, tone deceptively casual. "I was _humiliated_ during my trial. I have my company back, but the way people look at me, the way they talk about me, the way they talk _to_ me? It's been a decade, Arty, and they're still laughing at me. Because of you."

There was a pause.

"So magic is a means to an end," Butler concluded. "You want revenge."

For the first time that night, Spiro seemed aware of the danger that Butler could pose. He looked up at the bodyguard, appraising him. The shadows in the hedge obscured Butler’s features, transforming him into a looming presence. Ultimately, Spiro stood his ground, but the venom in his voice from earlier was conspicuously absent. 

"No," Spiro decided. "No, I don't want revenge. Honestly," he laughed, "I'm not even that mad."

Even Butler couldn't conceal his look of doubt at this statement.

"I was a bit of a bastard in my own right. I kidnapped you, after all," Spiro conceded, and Artemis felt a flick at the base of his skull. He winced slightly, and Spiro scrutinized him.

Artemis bid him to continue. "Apologies. A midge bit me."

This time, he was expecting Holly to flick him, and he didn't react.

More cagey than before, Spiro waited before pushing on. His posture reflected an awareness of the fact he was missing something, which indubitably wounded his pride and stoked his sense of self-preservation. Yet he stayed despite these instincts, clearly intending to express the feelings that had driven him to Fowl Manor in the first place. 

Gesturing falteringly at the surrounding hedges, Spiro struggled with the conflicting emotions swarming within him. "There just has to be more than this," he finally said, the impuissance of the statement instilling an adolescent-like frustration in his voice.

"You're welcome to leave the maze at any time," Butler muttered uncharitably.

"I don't mean the damn maze," Spiro hissed.

"More than this...?" Artemis prompted.

"There's an answer for everything in my line of business," Spiro bemoaned, though his tone was guarded due to his resentment at not being taken seriously. "Fission Chips knows that profits this quarter will be down because the housing market is down, and people don't buy stocks when they're out on the streets. Oh, and did you know we have a contract with NASA? Yeah, so far, it looks like the only intelligent life in the Milky Way is stuck on this dump of a planet. Also, if you use our phones or computers, we have your searches, your conversations, your paperwork — everything! The amount of pointlessness that props up day-to-day life is borderline _eldritch_. 

"Maybe if I'd been born a few centuries ago, I'd have had the chance to believe in something before I died of dysentery," he finished listlessly. 

Thankfully, the night concealed any hints of derision that might have revealed itself on Artemis' face. 

"How does the existence of magic change that?" Artemis questioned, trying his best to be gentle in his delivery.

Looking unsure, Spiro faltered. "It just does," he insisted.

Artemis pursed his lips. "Rather than standing here debating the ontology of magic, a therapist would serve you better. Whatever wonderment you feel at the existence of the supernatural will eventually be assimilated into your general nihilism. "

Petulant, Spiro shook his head. "I don't care."

"That's your problem, Jon," Artemis wheedled. "You _won't_ care. What's best for you, in my opinion, is to go back to London. Let the question of magic remain unanswered — the hope that you'll one day discover how I beat you in Phonetix's labs will sustain you more than any answer I could provide would."

A cloud passed over the moon that hung over them, and the silvery wash of light dappled over the damp ground.

Artemis held his breath, waiting for Spiro's response.

"Whatever," Spiro drawled at last, narrowing his eyes.

With that, he stalked off, his hands jammed in the pockets of his white linen suit. Faintly, Artemis could hear him muttering curses under his breath. A sharp gust of breeze blew past Artemis, and he sucked in his breath, understanding. The vents of Spiro's jacket fluttered in the wind, and suddenly, Spiro flinched, looking wildly around for the source of his distress.

Overhead, the moon peeked out from behind the clouds that had concealed it. The walkway that led to the entrance of the maze was flooded with moonlight, and a soft glow illuminated the clearing, giving it the appearance of a grayed-out version of the daytime world.

Spiro cupped his hands around his mouth, raising his voice. "Prick!"

Vindicated at having gotten the last word in, he turned the corner of the maze, leaving Artemis and Butler alone on the path.

Artemis hummed. "Profanity communicates only itself, don't you think?"

A breathy laugh sounded beside his ear. "I think Spiro was right for once, actually."

"Technically, I think that comment was directed at you," he pointed out archly.

Unshielding briefly to stick out her tongue, Holly shot off into the night, sending the leaves of the bushes around Artemis and Butler aflutter.

* * *

Though difficult, Artemis began to make peace with the lack of closure regarding Spiro. While Holly's magic may have been more potent than the average fairy's due to years of practice in the field, even her mesmer could not have removed Spiro's memories without complication. 

After the party, Artemis had retreated to his office, intending to go through his emails before bed. Butler had followed, and they'd sat quietly in one another's presence for some time. Artemis attended to his work, and Butler read his book.

Not even looking up from his reading, Butler asked: "Are you unhappy with how tonight transpired?"

Artemis continued to tap away at his keyboard, eyes glued to his desktop's monitor. "Clearly."

Harrumphing, Butler finally set his book down, closing it on his lap. "Should I prepare myself for a trip to America, then?"

"No," Artemis said, decisive.

Butler looked incredulous.

Artemis looked up. "I am... frustrated with the feelings of powerlessness this evening has stoked. The idea that Spiro was capable of attacking us, and that he then discovered the existence of magic due to my actions is not an appealing one. Moreover, the fact he incurred nearly zero repercussions for his actions disturbs me."

"But you still believe the best course of action is to leave him be," Butler confirmed, raising an eyebrow.

Artemis sighed. "Spiro may never get what he deserves. Though, I've heard it said that the same might be said of us." 

"Would it insult you if I said I was proud of you for that?"

Pausing in his typing, Artemis contemplated this. "Thank you for being by my side tonight, Domovoi."

"Always, Artemis."

* * *

When Holly came to visit Fowl Manor during the next full moon, she found Artemis stewing in his office.

"Someone's in a foul mood," she noted, letting out a low whistle.

He scowled, continuing to read through the newspaper he was clutching. Ignoring the boy’s agitation, Holly landed on his desk, powering down her wings as she did so. He shifted his chair back slightly so that she had enough room, looking up from the paper for the first time since Holly had entered the room.

"You'll have to read it yourself," Artemis huffed. "I hardly think I would be able to explain it without losing my temper again."

Holly looked at the article Artemis was holding, scanning the title.

"Bizarre," she declared, motioning for him to hand her the paper. He acquiesced.

"Earlier this week, Jon Spiro, head of Delos, a company formerly known as Fission Chips, announced the plan to update the image of his practice," she read aloud, raising an eyebrow at the mention of the new name. "Though many commentators have pointed out the risk in rebranding a company decades after its inception, Spiro has brushed off these concerns. Of the old name of the company, Spiro says: 'it represents who we used to be — an immature company. That's always been our weakness. Sure, we're wildly successful, and maybe some of the smaller guys will read this and argue that it's poor form for an industry giant to complain about 'weak points'. But it's true — when you talk about the Phonetix versus Fission Chips divide, what you repeatedly hear is that we're a lifestyle brand or that we make second-rate products. As we move away from sophomoric puns and gimmicks, I hope that we can put that kind of talk to rest.' However, whether this is tough-talk from the king of bluster or a genuine new leaf for the company, only time will tell,'" Holly finished, tossing the newspaper back on Artemis' desk.

" _Unhinged_ ," Artemis enunciated, jabbing a finger at the article as he spoke. "He is out of his mind."

"What do humans call it — a 'midlife crisis'?" Holly offered.

Artemis groaned. "The one blessing in this disaster is that I highly doubt my father recalls enough of his classics education to make the connection between 'Jon's' new company name and our — or rather, my — name."

Holly snorted. "Wouldn't it be something if he assumed 'Delos' was a connection to him instead?"

"I can picture it now," Artemis quipped. "'Artemis, isn't it _grand_ that the fellow I met a few months ago was so touched by our encounter that he's decided to change his company's name?' Conversely, I'm sure that when my mother finds out about this, she'll refuse to let me out of her sight — for reasons that are beyond me, Butler told her about the _En Fin_ shooting before the dinner. Arguably, the greatest threat that night would have been her deciding to throttle Father for letting Spiro in the manor."

"Tell Angeline I say hello, by the way."

"You're more than welcome to say hello to her yourself," Artemis said, his grin expanding by a few teeth when she floundered, searching for a polite way to decline.

"You are horrible," she declared, catching on to the fact he was calling her bluff. "I take the time off work to say hello to you, and what do you do? Badger me for the entire visit."

"You're on the clock now, if I'm not mistaken."

"That I am," she grinned back.

Reaching for the paper, Artemis folded it, setting it aside carefully in one of the many folders on his desk. He moved to rise from his chair, its wheels squeaking as he stood. 

Curious, Holly watched. 

"Though it may be later than I would like, I do still need to eat dinner," he explained. Hopping down from her perch on the desk, Holly kicked her wings back into gear, hovering so that she was roughly at eye height to her human friend.

"I will leave you to it, then."

Artemis cocked his head to the side. "While I wish we had been more successful with Spiro, I do appreciate you agreeing to help. In exchange for your aid during a rather unpleasant dinner, it's only fair I extend the offer to partake in a more legitimate one. As Juliet just returned from her wrestling tour in Mexico, tonight seems ideal for making an attempt at catching up."

She mulled over the invitation, wings humming.

"It's a saffron risotto Butler made earlier," he offered. "I will have to put it in the oven, but preparation should not take long."

"Good to know you've advanced to being able to warm up left-overs."

"Should I take that as a no, then?" he queried.

"No — I accept your invitation to the Butler-Fowl dinner table," she quipped, attempting an affectation of his Oxford-tinged Irish accent.

Delighted, he motioned for her to follow him to the office door. As they exchanged casual chatter, the sounds of the night played quietly, ignorant to the warming of ovens and the odd, contrapuntal lives of humans and the fae. Soon enough, the full moon would sink, appearing to slip below the waters of the ocean. In its odd bubble of space and time, Fowl Manor stood proud, though nobody paid much attention. For tonight, all was still. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Rainsford and Zaroff  
> Main characters from the short story, The Most Dangerous Game -- with the title being that the “most dangerous game” (a.k.a prey/quarry) to hunt is our fellow man
> 
> \- Delos  
> Artemis’ provenience/birthplace in greek mythology -- it’s meant to be another kinda weak attempt by Spiro at provoking a reaction from Artemis (i.e. “hey i still remember magic + the fact you almost destroyed my company :) just thought i’d mentioned that again lol”), which segues into another restatement of Artemis’ decision to not engage w/ these attempts to kick off a rivalry
> 
>  **General stuff:**  
>  If it sounds business-y/tech-y, there’s a 90% chance I just tweaked part of the weird history of rivalry that Apple and Microsoft share before shoving it at Fission Chips or Phonetix
> 
> There is a Lot of hunting + moon stuff in here to try to hit the intersection between Artemis (mythology) and the People
> 
> In book 3, Colfer set up a fair amount of parallels between Spiro and Fowl Sr. -- Artemis and Spiro are similarly of short stature, there’s the emphasis on profit over all else (which is likely facilitated by less than legal business practices), the beginning of the book is peppered w/ scenes between Artemis and Fowl Sr. in Helsinki where Artemis is super stricken by how different his father is post-healing before the book cuts to more Spiro drama, etc  
> \- “Don’t call me Arty, thought Artemis. My father calls me Arty.”  
> \- “Spiro placed his palms on the table. ‘Listen, kid,’ he whispered. ‘I like you. In a couple of years, you could have been just like me.”
> 
> This (IMHO) reads as Spiro representing both the sort of man Artemis could grow up to be and “what sort of man was Fowl Sr. before Holly smoothed out the edges w/ her magic?” -- I don’t necessarily think Fowl Sr. was ever as much of an asshole (at least, not to his family) as Spiro is, but part of why I think Artemis loathes Spiro + the fact Spiro got the better of him is that he sees that similarity between Spiro and the man his father was; he’s like an uncomfortable reminder of who the Fowls were. I wanted this fic to end with Artemis letting go of that desire to finally “beat” Spiro (though the man will always be detestable to Artemis) bc 1) that chapter of his life is over and 2) giving in to arrogance was low-key what got Artemis into the Cube disaster in the first place. Because the series focuses so heavily on the theme of Artemis redeeming himself, I kind of wanted to poke at what that theme means RE: the idea of justice + retribution and cycles w/i the book by reintroducing Spiro, who serves as a really interesting human foil to both Artemis and Fowl Sr.  
> It’s spring bc of new beginnings/rebirth symbolism + it’s currently winter in New England and the weather sucks ass


End file.
